The Orchard

By the orchard’s edge I hear
The thrush and the quail,
I hear vast hearts moving

Dreaming their gold,
anxious over sun-dried
loosened earth, sometimes high,

Under low branches, with their dark leaves,
And how they cast together,
All those hands

Of honey sealed suns
weaving in and out
Never say, parting leaves!

Here, where they turn soft,
carving out wishes —
I sit where all yellow light sings sun,

Under fibro boughs,
feeling there is strength.

—Lola Ridge

• Lola Ridge